Who's the Prisoner Now?
by shortstorygirl
Summary: When the Mistress comes to Superjail for a visit, chaos breaks out in the cafeteria, and things spiral into terror for the Warden when a prisoner decides to exact revenge for his incarceration. Rated M for torture, graphic violence, and violation.
1. Chaos in the cafeteria

"Just can't stay away from me can you?" The Warden grinned, showing the gap between his teeth at the Mistress's frown-creased face. Ultraprison, having been on a course that took them right by Superjail, had decided to stop for a short visit. Truth be told, it was mainly to get Chareese to stop sobbing over her infatuation with Jared. The woman was positively heartsick for the accountant and wouldn't let Mistress forget about it. After much thought and several sleepless nights, she had consented and approached the jail.

"Don't flatter yourself, Warden," she said, slapping her riding crop into her open palm. "I have a responsibility to the productivity of my prison to examine and learn from other prisons." She stopped in the middle of the hallway, thwacking her crop against his chest and bringing him up short. "This is not about you. I could not care less about your oversized ego. Now, let's move on." She turned and continued on.

"Hmph." The Warden tweaked his bowtie, turned up his nose, and strode forward to keep up. He glanced at the Mistress, at her firm face and rigid posture. He could not fathom why she had to be so uptight, so severe about everything. It really got under his skin whenever his thoughts turned to her, and it was even worse with her here right now. Not that he thought about her often! Just… every now and then, when he was particularly bored, his mind would drift, and lately it had been returning with memories of her and the inevitable stress she caused him. Of course he would never admit that he had taken extra time this morning to get ready when Jared told him of Ultraprison's planned visit.

She looked up at him, her eyebrows coming together over her pink glasses. "What?"

"Huh?" He blinked.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like… how you were just looking at me." She waved her hand at him.

"How was I just looking at you?" He gripped his cane, sweat forming on his palms. Why in the hell was he sweating? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He had zoned out. That was all.

"You know what? Forget it. Let's just keep moving."

They walked on in strained silence. Finally they ended up in the cafeteria, where Jailbot, Alice, and Jared were already in the middle of what looked to be another subpar meal. The Warden and the Mistress seated themselves, leaving at least two feet of space between their chairs.

"Good afternoon, Mistress," said Jared, setting aside his soda and breaking out in a nervous sweat. "How are you enjoying your visit?"

"Like how I enjoy my period." Her lip curled.

The Warden's face twisted in disgust. "Not while I'm eating."

"You're not eating, moron." She barely spared him more than a glance before returning her attention to Jared. The Warden sulked in his seat.

"I… I'm sorry to hear about that," Jared said, tugging at his tie. "Well, I was wondering if perhaps you knew where Chareese was? I thought she would be with you so…"

"She's back on the ship," a slight smile turned her lips, "waiting for you. Better hurry." Much as she disliked the entire population of Superjail, she had a bit of a soft spot for Jared and his jittery nature. He seemed to be the only sane and mature one in the whole place. If Chareese was going to end up with anyone, it might as well be him.

"Oh," he said, jumping to his feet. "Yes, of course. T-thank you, Mistress. I─" His sentence vanished as soon as he turned and rammed into a passing inmate. Jared stumbled backward, grabbing the edge of the table to keep from falling.

The inmate dropped his tray with a sound like a mother's slap. He rounded on Jared, already raising his fists over a head of bristly hair. Jailbot zipped forward, snatching up the prisoner in one claw and tearing his head from his body with the other.

A riot erupted in the middle of the cafeteria.

The Warden leapt to his feet, crying for Jailbot and Alice to control the prisoners. While he loved a good blood fest, he dreaded being in the middle of one. He knew how bad the collateral damage could be, and his fear of death crept up his spine to wrap around his neck like a jealous lover's hands. His hands trembled.

"Warden," said the Mistress, ducking from a flung liver. "Control your prisoners. What kind of Warden are you?"

"The kind that's getting out of here." He spun, ready to tear out of the cafeteria and to the safety of his office.

But, just as he turned, he ran into the outstretched knife of an inmate.

The Warden's choked gasp cut through the tumult of the room, casting an iron silence on everyone. The inmate, a skinhead with fiery eyebrows and the tail of a tattoo snake curling out from under his left sleeve, backed away, taking the stolen kitchen knife with him. His footsteps tapped across the tile, the only sound in the room aside from the awful noises coming out of the Warden's throat.

He clasped his hands over the wound and staggered a step. His face was pale as bad milk, and his mouth hung open like he wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.

Jared ran over, sweat pouring down his face. "Sir, don't worry. I'll get the Doctor. You'll be okay." Alice was already contacting the Doctor while Jailbot went to his creator.

The Warden turned his head at a glacial pace. It was painful to see. His eyes held a wide question behind those yellow glasses. "What?" The question was soft, short, and hopelessly disturbing. He didn't understand what was happening to him. He was thoroughly disbelieving of what had just occurred. Suddenly, his head whipped forward again, staring off ahead of him. His shoulders jerked. He coughed a little, and a few fingertips of blood crawled down his bottom lip. He looked down, moved his hands, stared at the bloody palms and the dark smear growing on his stomach.

Then his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, and he passed out on the cafeteria floor.


	2. Who's The Prisoner Now?

The Warden woke up in a hospital bed in what looked to be the jail's infirmary. He had on a paper thin hospital gown. On the chair beside him were his shoes, socks, underwear, and pants. The rest of his clothes and effects were nowhere to be seen. He tried to sit up, and pain rocketed through his side.

A gasp burst past his teeth, and he tore away the gown to get a good look at what was causing him such unbearable agony. Someone, the Doctor probably, had wrapped his lower abdomen in gauze. Patches of red were already blooming on the white bandages, and the knife wound throbbed like a pulse.

The whole bloody event came back to him with every beat of his injury. His head swam, and panic fluttered at the back of his mind. How close he had come to death on the nasty cafeteria floor. Well, now everything was going to be okay. The Doctor would come back and stitch him up, and he'd be good as new. He'd be back to running his magnificent Superjail in no time.

He smiled and looked back at what little clothes had been left for him. He assumed the blood had ruined everything but what was on the chair. Someone would be along shortly to replenish his wardrobe, of that he was certain.

In the meantime he shifted around on the bed and got dressed in what he had. Just as he zipped up his pants, the sound of footsteps near him made him look up. His heart nearly stopped when he saw who was standing in the doorway.

The skinhead inmate who had stabbed him stood with a sharp smile.

Words came painfully, tripping over themselves. "G-get out. St-stay away from me. Jailbot! Alice!"

Before he managed another yell, Skinhead jumped forward and brought a bedpan down on Warden's head. Fireworks went off in his eyes, and he fell to his knees. Something burst in his side, the knife wound gushing from strain. Dizziness washed over him, and he clutched the front of Skinhead's orange jumpsuit, though he loathed himself for it. He would not let himself crumple at this criminal's feet.

The Warden groaned when Skinhead stooped to pick him up. He held him like a groom would hold his bride, but his grip was painful and careless.

"You can't do this," Warden said, the words inching past his lips. "You'll regret this."

"No, Warden." His fingernails cut into the Warden's bare skin and nearly bit through his pants. "You'll regret this."

He tried not to think about what that could mean, preferring to try and keep from passing out. His head felt like an egg with a crack down the middle, and his stomach pounded.

Skinhead carried him from hallway to hallway, peering around corners and dashing past doors. Soon he turned down a hallway lined with cells. The inmates immediately perked up at the sight of Warden's limp body.

Then the catcalling started.

All sorts of awful slurs and threats were hurled his way. They made vulgar gestures, spat at him, heaved small objects and other questionable things. None of it hit him, but he felt the horrifying sting of their eager voices and stares. They were enjoying the look of their warden in the arms of an inmate. They were reveling in one man's victory, a triumph that meant everything to them who had witnessed atrocities untold.

"Hey," said one criminal. "Looks like Sykes got himself a wife."

Laughter rushed out from both sides.

"Gonna be a great honeymoon."

"Get it, Sykes."

"Have fun, Warden."

Vomit climbed up the back of the Warden's throat. He pushed it back, wanting so badly to block out what they called to him. Surely they didn't mean what he thought they did. This wasn't even happening. Jailbot and Alice and everyone were on their way right now. They had gone to the infirmary to check on him, found him absent, and went running to save him. Yes. That's what had to have happened. No reason to panic. He was the Warden. He could fend for himself. He would be fine.

They arrived at what must have been Sykes cell. It was empty but for the essentials. There was no real question of what had happened to the other inmate. At Superjail, there really wasn't much else that could take away an inmate.

Sykes shifted his hold on Warden so he could dig out a large key. He smiled at Warden's uneasy face. "Snatched them from Alice during the fight. Need to train your security better, Warden." He unlocked the cell, stepped in, and dropped the Warden flat on the cold, concrete floor.

He let out a pained shout, only to receive cheers from the inmates he could no longer see. The only ones he could really see were the two in the cell across from him. One was a black man with a single vein bulging in his temple. The other was an inmate he had seen on several occasions. He had black hair slicked back from his head, sideburns creeping down the sides of his face, stubble, and a permanent Elvis-style curl to his lip. The Warden had never bothered to learn his name.

"Well, well, well," said Elvis. "Look who we got here. The Warden's come to pay us a little visit." The two laughed, nudging each other.

The Warden, despite the pain shooting from his back and tailbone, made his way to the cell bars. He gripped them, shoving his face up to the space between. "You two. Call for Alice. Get me out of here this instant."

Elvis made a "pffft" sound and smirked. "Not a chance, Warden. It's your turn to know what it's like to be one of us."

"Yeah," said Veiny. "Who's the prisoner now, Warden?"

A bitter frost settled into the Warden's bones. His hands went weak around the metal bars. This was really going to happen. No one here was going to help him.

A shadow draped over him, and his eyes went slowly up to Sykes.

He grinned down at him, cracking the knuckles on his huge hands. "Now then," he said, flashing sharp teeth, "let's get started, shall we?"


	3. Anything I Want

Sykes swept down, grabbing Warden by his shoulder, and hauling him backward. He threw him against the wall adjacent to the bars with the back wall on his left. The rush of movement coupled with the force of it sent bolts of pain through his back, his stomach, his head. He cringed, shrinking against the wall. It was so cold against his bare back. The sensation of icy concrete on naked skin made him acutely aware of how vulnerable he was in front of this meaty inmate. His stomach twisted.

"What's this?" Sykes knelt before him. His fingers picked at the bandages around Warden's waist. "Someone wrap you up nice and tight?"

Hums of laughter moved through the cellblock.

The Warden had no words. His throat was shut as tight as the cell door.

"You know you really need to let a wound like that air out before you bandage it like this." He tugged at the bandages. They barely moved without taking the Warden with them, so tightly were they bound around his midsection. "Let me help you with that."

"Wh─"

His question was cut short when Sykes ripped through the bandages, jerking his whole body and leaving behind an angry streak of irritated skin where the gauze had rubbed him. He cried out, tears sparking at the corners of his eyes.

Sykes tore away the rest of the bandages, leaving the Warden's gash open and gaping at the air. Needle-sharp pricks of pain plunged through the tissue and nerves. Warden made a sound through his gritted teeth like the sound of an animal caught in a trap.

"Now," said Sykes, licking his thin lips, "let's begin the dissection."

Then, he plunged a finger into the wound.

The sound that exploded from the Warden was one that seemed made to split the walls and crack the bars. Some inmates lifted up cheers for Sykes. Others insisted he keep the man quiet or else someone would hear and come to investigate.

Tears swelled, then poured down the Warden's face, leaving streaks on his sickly pale face. He twisted, trying to escape Sykes but only furthering the agony in his stomach.

"Please." It came out as a choked scream, his voice breaking above them all. "Please, stop. Please." He tried to get his hands on Sykes's shoulders, tried to push him away, but the other man reached up with his free hand, took hold of the Warden's hair, and slammed the back of his head against the wall.

The Warden gasped, twitched, and fell silent, only occasionally whimpering as Sykes wiggled his finger in the now gushing wound. Tears continued to stream down his face. His body quivered. When Sykes finally relented and moved away, Warden turned his head toward the bars and retched on the floor. He coughed and spat and let his tears drip onto the mess. His chest heaved, and every exhale made his body shake.

He looked up and locked eyes with the Elvis inmate. The pair of them was watching with rapt attention, but they didn't look entirely enthusiastic. Elvis almost looked upset at the Warden's slack face, sweaty forehead, and tear-stained cheeks. He could have sworn he almost mouthed the words, "I'm sorry."

The Warden took a breath, as deep of one as he could without the pain overwhelming him, and took a chance. Without making a sound, he mouthed to the inmates, "Please. Help me."

"Don't look at them." Sykes grabbed the Warden by his chin, yanking his face back forward. "They won't help you. No one will. Who would? Who in this entire hellhole would help the person who put them here and endangered their lives every day for his own sick whims? You must really be batshit insane to think any person here would give two shits about what I'm going to do to you."

He gathered his breath. "What are you going to do to me?"

Sykes smiled, and it was like a shark coming upon a guppy. "Anything I want."


	4. Like An Animal

The Warden remembered when he had once been locked in Superjail's freezer, a room full of ice, snow, and arctic air. The chills and shudders had crept upon him, scraping his skin and nerves with bitter fingers. Eventually, in the grip of hypothermia and frostbite, he succumbed to the temperatures and froze over. It took almost ten hours to thaw him completely, and after that he had one hell of a cold.

These memories came upon him much like the frigid air had in that room. He stared up at Sykes and trembled like he was right back in that room. Except he wasn't. He was trapped in a small cell with a sadistic inmate with no help in sight. He quaked all over.

"Stand up." Sykes stepped back, just enough to give Warden room to get to his feet.

He did not move.

"I told you to stand up." He reached down, gripped him by his neck, and hoisted him to his feet. Sykes slammed him against the wall, squeezing his throat until Warden thought he would lose consciousness right there. He scrabbled at Sykes's hand, but the feeling in his hands dissolved, and all he could do was twitch like a leaf caught in a car's windshield wipers.

Sykes smiled, ran his tongue over his teeth. He finally released the Warden, and chuckled when the thin man gasped and coughed. "Should've obeyed me the first time."

Pulling together what strength he could muster while leaning heavily against the wall, he said, "I'm the Warden. No one orders me around."

Sykes hurtled a fist into Warden's stomach, specifically in his now inflamed gash.

His shout came out as a harsh, short sound, and he doubled over to nurse his pain. The tears returned, but he blinked them away, too busy looking to see if any of his ribs were cracked and poking out of his skin. Luckily, he found no sign of broken bone.

Sykes grabbed the Warden's chin and tipped his head up so they could look each other in the eyes. He rubbed his thumb along Warden's jaw, leaving a red stripe of irritated skin. "I'm going to enjoy every second of this."

"Of what?" The words came out punctuated with gasps. Sweat limped down the sides of his face. His heart fluttered faintly in his chest.

He did not reply with words but with a sudden, rough movement as he ripped open the Warden's pants and yanked them down to the grimy floor.

The Warden gasped, almost too shocked to make any move other than to try and shove Sykes away. The stifled sound of laughter as news of the latest development in his torture made its way through the cellblock grated against the Warden's ears. His face lit up like a stoplight.

He didn't have time to say anything else when Sykes punched him in the jaw, cutting off his protests and struggles for a moment or two. In the time it took the Warden to regain his composure, Sykes got the Warden's pants off and tossed in a corner. Then he jerked down his white briefs, leaving him completely exposed to the inmates across from him and maybe the pairs that neighbored them.

He clapped his hands over his privates, hunched his scrawny body, and tried to hold back the horrified tears climbing over the edges of his eyes. Never before had a felt more like a small animal caught in a trap. He certainly had not foreseen this.

Sykes laughed, putting one arm on the wall beside Warden's head, leaning in until he was practically breathing on the man's face, which had become a mix of fiery red and sickly white. He trailed a thick finger down the Warden's chest, teasing the sparse hair there. "What's wrong, Warden? Shy? Embarrassed by that puny thing you call a dick?"

The laughter came unbridled now, rushing out in gales from the assorted criminals.

"Please," the Warden said through the drinking straw his throat had become. "Please. Don't do this."

"Don't do what? This?" He grabbed the Warden's hands, throwing them aside, and plunging his rough hand between Warden's legs.

"Stop." The Warden pushed on Sykes's arm, but the other man was fast and pinned the Warden's arms above his head with just one sweep of his massive arm. He held them there while viciously pumping the Warden's member.

The Warden screamed for help, wriggled and writhed and tried to get away, but Sykes's was strong with years of hardening in Warden's own prison. He kept the Warden trapped in his place, working the man into a frenzy of tears and trembling.

It didn't take long for the Warden's body to betray him. His penis stiffened to the attention, filling Sykes's hand in a matter of seconds.

Sykes barked a cruel laugh. "You like that, do you?"

"No. Please. Let me go." He sobbed wildly, twisting his body in whatever way he thought would free him. It did no good.

"You're lying, you sick prick. Your dick tells me so." He gave a fierce yank, and pain impaled the Warden.

He moaned, not from pleasure, but from the fear, pain, and feeling of total helplessness that had pervaded his very soul. He groaned into his shoulder, bit the flesh there, tried to keep from weeping at this man's hand.

"Guess we need to try something else then," Sykes said, his voice gravelly.

Before the Warden could ask what, Sykes dropped his arm and stepped back. He sprinted to the bars. On the way there, Sykes's hand smacked him hard on the butt, and laughter crackled up all around him.

The Warden fell against the bars, gripping them and shoving his face between them. He locked eyes with Elvis and forced his throat to work. "Please. If you have any decency left in you. If you have any pity in your hearts. Please, help me. Help me. Don't let this happen. Please." He screamed for them, let the tears course down his face like twin rivers, pressed his body to the bars, offered them whatever they wanted. Still, all they could do was stare at his terrified face.

Suddenly, Sykes had him by his ankles, and Warden fell face first on the concrete. His jaw slammed against the floor, and he hoped it wasn't broken. The sound of Sykes drawing down his zipper wrenched him from his muddled thoughts. The man's weight on his back and legs coaxed him into wild scrambling.

He clawed the floor, tried to drag himself out from beneath this massive man. Again he turned his pleas to the two men across from him. Every word came out in a sob or a scream. "Please, help me. Save me. Someone. Anyone. Jailbot. Alice. Jared. Mistress. Anyone. Please. Please. No. No. No. Don't. Please. Don't. NO."

The first thrust tore something.

The second broke his spirit.

The third made wail like an infant.

The fourth made him shriek like a bird giving up its death cry.

At this time, the inmates took up a chorus of, "Shut him up. Someone's gonna hear. Someone's coming. Shut him up for God's sake."

Sykes obliged, taking a handful of the Warden's hair and slamming the man's face into the floor, cracking his yellow glasses and plunging him into darkness. The last thing he thought was that he would surely die on this cell floor.


	5. Help Is On The Way

"Where the hell is he?" The Mistress paced the video monitoring room while Jared, Alice, and Jailbot attended to the controls.

"I don't know. I'm looking." Jared flicked switches, pushed buttons, and generally did anything he thought might locate the missing Warden.

"Doesn't this place have video cameras?" She stomped up to Jared's chair, hanging over him and glaring at the screens.

"Yes. One for every cell."

"Then why aren't you checking them?" She squeezed the small man's shoulder with every word.

"I am, but something's wrong. All of the feeds are cut. I can't see into any of the cells. All I get is a fuzzy screen." He flicked through a set of feeds to show her the problem. Crackling noises and snow filled each monitor.

"I bet it was those twins," said Alice, dropping a fist into her open palm.

Jailbot made a nervous beep.

"Don't worry, Jailbot," Jared said. "We'll find him. Maybe not all of the feeds are screwed up."

"Yeah. Why would those little freaks get rid of something they might actually enjoy watching?" Alice folded her arms and stared hard at the screens. Her muscles bulged, the only sign of her mounting worry.

"Well," said the Mistress, "you'll just have to go through every cell."

"That could take weeks. We don't have that kind of time." He had already sweated through two changes of shirts and was working away at the third. It looked like he might be close to a total breakdown.

"There has to be a way to narrow it down." The Mistress furrowed her brow, putting her keen mind to the test. A headache bloomed in her right temple, and she winced. This was unbelievable. They leave the Warden alone for a few minutes to get him some new clothes, and when they get back he's been kidnapped by an inmate. She had the sneaking suspicion it was the same one from the cafeteria.

"Dammit." Alice's sudden cursing pulled the Mistress from her thoughts.

"What? What is it?" She turned to the guard, trying to ignore the pain in her head.

"Someone must have stolen one of my keys during the riot. I've got one missing."

"Do you know which cell it goes to?" Hope sat up in the Mistress's chest. Her headache ebbed.

"No, but I can figure out which cellblock. I have a master key for each cell on a specific block. One key per block. One key for all the cells on it."

"If we know which block it is," said Jared, "I can pull up the feeds and see if we can get any clear shots."

"Because I'd bet my life that's where the inmate took him." The Mistress grinned. They had them now.

Alice thumbed through the massive ring of keys for a minute. "I'm missing Cellblock 372."

Jared wasted no time in bringing up a wall of videos from that block. All but one were fuzzy with interference.

"Oh my god." The words hung in the room for so long that they almost forgot who said them, as they were all probably thinking the same thing.

The Warden was there, face down on a cell floor, completely naked and bruised across his lower back, buttocks, and legs. The skinhead from the riot was stretched out on his bed, smoking what must have been a contraband cigarette. Occasionally the Warden would whimper and moan in his sleep or unconsciousness or whatever catatonic state into which he had been shoved.

The Mistress stood perfectly still, her eyes wide and terrified. Memories assaulted her, but she pushed them aside for now. For now this wasn't about her. This was about a man broken and bleeding on the ground, a man she had never truly cared for until she heard him mutter pleas for help in his ransacked state. This was about getting to Cellblock 372 as fast as possible.

* * *

The Warden groaned himself into consciousness. His jaw beat with a dull ache, and he squinted through his cracked glasses. A chill draped his back, and he realized Sykes was no longer on top of him or inside him. He grimaced, shutting his eyes against the tears that threatened to take over again.

Nothing felt real, nothing except the pain lacing its way through his body and the blood leaking out of his gash and his… He didn't even want to think about it. This couldn't be real. He had to be dreaming, caught in a terrible nightmare. Any minute now Jailbot would wake him up to start the day.

A few minutes went by like hours in which he did not wake up, and he did not escape this hellhole. Instead, he got his hands under him and pushed himself up onto his knees. He didn't even try to shield himself from the inmates' indefinable looks.

The Warden crawled back to the wall, pressing his back to it and hugging his knees to his chest. He shivered, and pain rippled through his muscles. How long had Sykes gone at him while he was unconscious? He shuddered again.

"Look who's finally awake." Sykes smirked around his cigarette. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" He exploded in thunderclaps of laughter, banging a hand on the wall beside his bed.

The rest of the cellblock joined in, smacking their walls and bars. Someone threw something (maybe a chair, or book) against the wall joined with the Warden's.

He flinched, tightening the embrace on his knees. It was at that moment that he felt the danger of his nakedness. He knew well that these floors weren't kept perfectly clean. Now he had two open wounds, one of which had been left pressed against the floor for who knows how long, and he was sitting on the other. Blood continued to trickle onto the floor, leaving him with a grimy, nasty feeling.

His pants were in a crumpled heap on the other side of the room. His underwear was torn in two. He cringed at that, figuring Sykes had done it just to make it clear how utterly he possessed the Warden. Too tired to really feel embarrassment, the Warden asked, "Can I at least have my pants back?"

"What was that?" Sykes sat up, stubbing out the cigarette on the edge of the bed. He smiled.

Heat spread through the Warden's face. "My pants. Can I have them?"

"Can you have them _what_?"

He chewed his lip for a second, trying to hold back the rage that wanted to rush out. "Can I have them back _please_?"

More laughter ensued, creeping up his spine and jackhammering the base of his skull. How much of this would he have to endure before Sykes just killed him?

"Sure, Warden," Sykes said, climbing off the bed and scooping up the wrinkled mess of purple material. He tossed them at the Warden, but he did not turn away. His smile never dropped, like he knew what was to come next.

At first, the Warden thought maybe he could get them on himself. Then, after trying to bend over to work them onto his legs, his gash went up in fiery agony, and spurts of blood went shrieking down his stomach. He had to lean back and take deep breaths for a minute to quell the pain. Sweat sheathed his forehead, and he wondered if he would vomit again.

He gritted his teeth, not wanting to face facts. He could not do this on his own. The pain was too great. With waves of warmth filling his face, he asked, "Can you help me get them on?"

"What was that again?" He cupped one hand around his right ear. "Afraid I'm a little hard of hearing today. All your screaming must have busted an eardrum."

Tears sparked and bit at the Warden's eyes. His nose burned, and his throat shrank. Every bit of him, from the nerve endings in his fingers to the useless muscles in his arms, wanted to go flying at the man's face. He wanted to claw and scream and punch and bite and tear him to pieces. But he couldn't, and he knew he couldn't. In the short span of the last couple hours he had become acutely aware of how helpless and useless he really was.

Instead he asked, "Can you help me get my pants on _please_?"

"Of course, Warden," Sykes said with a big grin. "Whatever you want, sir."

He knelt at the Warden's right side, taking the pants from him with a short laugh. Soon he had them up to his knees. At that point he had to stop and manage to get the Warden off the ground for a minute. His eyes barreled into the Warden's.

"Put your arms over my shoulder and hold on." His voice had gone strangely calm and mirthless.

The Warden, disturbed by the sudden change of demeanor, complied and put his arms over Sykes's right shoulder. Sykes wrapped his arm around the Warden's waist, lifting him partly off the floor while his other hand worked the pants up over his thighs.

"I used to help my grandmother get dressed when she couldn't get out of bed anymore," Sykes said, just loud enough for only the Warden to hear. His touch was frighteningly gentle.

"Really? That's… um…" He didn't know what to say. It wasn't really his custom to spend his days contemplating the inmates' lives prior to their incarceration.

"Yeah," he said, his voice hardening again. "Before I got busted for robbing a convenience store to pay for her medication. Then I ended up here. I haven't heard from her since. She could be dead for all I know, and she probably is."

Fear resumed its place in the Warden's chest. "I… I'm sorry. If you let me go, I promise to do whatever I can for your grandmother. Just let me go."

The chuckle that met the Warden's ear sent icy fingertips skating his spine. "Yeah, right."

It was at that moment that Sykes yanked hard on the Warden's pants, hiking them up behind him and ripping into his newly-injured area.

The Warden had thought he no longer had any screams left in him, but one managed to go spiraling out of his throat. His muscles contracted, and the ache left pounding through him once Sykes let go and sat back made him cough. He leaned over and threw up again, tears mixing with the mess on the floor. Surely his stomach had to be empty by now.

"Like a baby," Sykes said.

It took a moment for Warden to really understand what he meant. At first he thought it was just about his vomiting, but a moment later he felt the warmth spreading over his lap. He looked down and nearly started sobbing again.

He had pissed himself from the pain.

"I'll leave you to your misery then." Sykes patted the Warden's cheek and stood. Then, before turning away, he cast the Warden a stormy glare and kicked him in the head.

It was like a donkey had kicked him, and the Warden shouted. His head rolled to the side, resting against his clammy shoulder. Delirium took over again, and he found himself murmuring the names he had screamed just a little while ago. He had just gotten to the third repetition of the Mistress's name when he lost consciousness.


	6. Rescue

Mistress, Alice, and Jailbot arrived at the cellblock just a few minutes later, each moving at a brisk pace. A door stood between them with a keypad to the right of it. They stood for a minute, glancing at each other as if they were not sure what to do now.

"We can't just go bursting into the cell," Mistress said. "He might kill the Warden."

"We need a way to get the asshole out of his cell," said Alice, one hand on her chin.

The Mistress mulled it over for a moment. "Alice, can you open any of the cells from this keypad?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Open the Warden's cell." Her frown cemented itself on her face. Maybe this would work.

"And let a criminal loose? You're crazy." But the idea seemed to work itself out on Alice's face.

"I don't think he'll be much against Jailbot." She tossed a smirk at the robot with its serious face. "Just don't kill him. I'm sure the Warden will want to take of that himself." She looked back at Alice. "Open the cell, and he'll run out the other side. Jailbot will go around to catch him, and I'll go get the Warden."

"I'm not too sure about that last part, Mistress." Discomfort curled Alice's lips. "Those are dangerous criminals in there."

"And if they try anything, you'll need your hands free to take care of them." She slipped her riding crop through a loop on her belt. "I can handle the Warden."

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you." She readied a hand over the keypad.

"I won't. Open the cell." The Mistress turned and faced the door, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. She wasn't used to this kind of frantic feeling. She didn't like it in the least.

Alice punched in the cell's number and put her finger on the "release" button. The sound of a distant cell opening came a moment later. A murmur of confusion and excitement ran through the block before a loud cry of happiness split the air. The sound of rapidly receding footsteps clapped through the hall. Jailbot beeped and shot off down the hall to head of Sykes.

The Mistress never took her eyes off the door. Her mouth was set in a grim line, and she squinted from behind her glasses.

"Are you ready?" Alice asked.

The Mistress only nodded.

The door opened, and she strode down the hall. She had to fight the urge to start running. The catcalls and shouts from inmates followed her all the way down the hall. Her pulse fluttered when she spotted the open cell door to her left.

She stood in the open space, and her stomach cinched.

The Warden sat slumped against the wall, his head against his shoulder. He looked a mess with his hair sticking out at all angles. His body was littered with bruises. The knife wound stood out a vibrant red against his sickly pale skin. His mouth hung open just slightly. The breaths coming from him were not even in the least.

Mistress hurried to his side, getting down on her knees while trying to avoid the vomit and blood on the floor. She put both hands on the Warden's shoulders, tried to shake him awake. "Warden," she said. Her throat grew tight like a drinking straw. "Warden, wake up. It's me. It's Mistress. Wake up now."

His eyelids dragged up for a second. "Mistress?" he asked, eking out the word past bloodied lips.

"Yes," she said, smiling in her delirious joy at seeing some form of recognition on his face. "Yes. It's me. It's going to be okay. I'm getting you out of here." She grabbed him under the arms and worked at getting him up. "Come on now. Let's go."

He hung in her arms as dead weight. It took a majority of her strength just to get him on his feet. Then, she could hardly get him to make a step before he crumpled in her arms. She sighed but lost all irritation when she saw the blood streaking the place he had sat.

Instead of getting frustrated, she hoisted Warden into her arms and stumbled back into the hall. Before she could get any further, a voice to her left called her to a stop.

"Wait," the Evils inmate said. He stood at the bars, staring at the two. "I mean, wait, ma'am."

"What do you want? I'm in a hurry." She adjusted her hold on the Warden, keeping one arm under his knees and one around his back. His head lolled against her shoulder.

"You can't go running off down the hall with him looking like that," he said, throwing a glance down the cellblock.

"What would you suggest?" She went to the bars.

He looked around for a second before snapping his fingers. "Just a sec." He stripped himself of his orange jumpsuit and held it up. "How's this?"

"Good. Can you help me?" She got as close as possible without shoving the Warden against the bars.

He nodded and draped the jumpsuit over the Warden's battered body. A moment later, and the arms and legs were knotted loosely around his neck and waist to cover him as much as possible. Elvis stepped back. "That should do."

"Thank you," she said. "I'll see that a new jumpsuit is sent to you soon." She turned to move on, but the inmate's voice stopped her again.

"And, Miss," he said, his words suddenly hesitant. "I'm sorry for what happened. I don't like the guy, there's no question about that, but what Sykes did to him…" He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Apologies do nothing in a case like this," she said and stalked back to the exit. As she went, she shifted so Warden's face hid against her neck. Occasionally he would murmur something that sounded like her name, but she ignored it and focused on getting him to the infirmary as soon as possible. She had enough to worry about, like the way her heart jumped every time his lips moved against her throat.


	7. Triggered

The first thing the Warden noticed upon waking was that was naked except for a thin sheet over his body. The next minutes were a bit of a blur.

It all came rushing back to him and, in a moment not unlike a flashback common with war veterans, he relived the entire thing. This all happened, more or less, in a matter of moments.

The Doctor's grotesque face swooped in close, but the Warden saw it as the composite of all the inmates' faces as they rioted in the cafeteria. A pair of hands, the Doctor's, grabbed his arms and made to subdue him, but the Warden fought like a wild animal.

He thrashed and screamed, tears budding at the corners of his eyes. The sheets twisted and tangled around him, but still he struggled. Now he remembered the pain of the blade in his side, the warmth of the blood gushing out onto his skin. He had torn his stitches, and his wound reopened.

More hands grasped at him, pulled him down toward the bed. Sykes and his pawing, violating hands groped through his memory. His face flushed, and the tears flowed freely now. They mixed with sweat and dripped unceasingly down his face. He tasted the salt and wondered why he did not taste his own blood.

He thought he heard someone calling his name, but he assigned the voices to those of the inmates, all cheering on Sykes as he raped and beat him. The sound grated against his ears, and he screamed just to block it all out. He screamed until his voice vanished, disappearing like a match flame snuffed out between a finger and thumb. Even with his voice gone, his mouth opened and stretched and contorted to fit the shrieks and wails he had grown used to in the past few hours.

Sykes's face lunged at him, teeth bared in a terrible grin. The Warden twisted his face away and met his pillow. He managed to form actual words at one point, but they all were simple variations of, "No. Please. Don't. Help me. Someone. Please. Help."

Suddenly, and this nearly pushed him into a heart attack zone, leather restraints closed around his wrists and ankles. They tightened, held him down, made it easier for him to feel the way his pulse fluttered and jumped beneath his skin. He yanked until he might have fractured something, but a needle jabbed into him.

Soon his muscles slackened, a fog engulfed his mind, and he lay down to sleep the sleep of the comatose.

The Mistress stood aside while the Doctor, Alice, and Jailbot restrained and medicated the Warden. Her heart felt cold, as if it were encased in a pocket of ice. Watching him react like this was too close to home. She felt she would be sick any minute if she didn't leave. But she still needed to consult with the Doctor.

"Okay, Doc," she said, gripping her riding crop to keep her hands from shaking. "Explain."

He sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead with a stained handkerchief. "The Warden, I'm afraid, is suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"The type of thing you see in war veterans?" Jared asked, not even bothering to wipe his own sweat, seeing as how useless that would be.

"Aye. You see it with a lot of people nowadays. It really spiked after 9/11, but it's been a problem for as long as there has been violence in the world."

"And the Warden is experiencing this?" asked the Mistress, taking notes in her head.

"Yes. What we just witnessed was an episode that may reoccur during certain situations. If he is triggered, the Warden will experience a flashback of the trauma, during which he will essentially relive the entire assault."

Alice gasped, her hand going to her mouth in a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Over time, with therapy and counseling, he will get better. But right now, the wound is fresh, and we must all be especially sensitive to his well-being." His eyes darted to the Mistress for just a second, but she caught it.

"What are you insinuating?" she asked, hands on her hips.

"Nothing. Simply that you and the Warden have certainly never been bosom buddies. I only ask that you be on your best behavior and try not to lose your temper with him. Anything could trigger him, and the psychological effects are far worse than the physical."

"What physical problems might we see?" Jared asked, stepping between the Mistress and the Doctor.

"On top of the trauma from the actual assault, he may suffer from high blood pressure, accelerated heart rate, migraines, and general fight-or-flight signs. If he does not take the medication I prescribe, he may be in danger of a heart attack, especially with his age to consider. Damn," he said, looking at the red splotch on the sheets. "He tore his stitches. I need to fix this. Everyone out for a few minutes. I don't have a lot of elbow room in here."

They all filed out into the hallway. Silence settled between them, the gravity of the situation making itself known. No one wanted to say the wrong thing.

"I can't believe this," Jared said, wringing his tie in his hands. "I just can't believe this. Poor Warden. We have to do everything we can to make sure he recovers quickly."

"I'll make regular trips to his room to make sure that area is secure," Alice said. Jailbot beeped, and they took that to mean he would stand watch at all times.

"I'll see to what he may need," said the Mistress.

They all looked at her, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"What? Just because I never really liked the man doesn't mean I won't help." She crossed her arms and looked toward the room in which the Warden lay, unconscious and suffering from scars that might never heal. Her heart shuddered.


	8. How It Feels

The Warden groaned, and he forced his eyes open against the weight that held them shut. The familiar shades and furnishings of his room greeted him, and, for a moment, he thought everything had been but a feverish nightmare.

"You're awake."

He twisted his head too fast, and a bolt of pain ripped through his neck and skull. No, it had not been a dream. Pain flowed back into his body, lapping at his tolerance. He took shallow breaths, fearing the agony deeper ones would bring to his knife wound.

The Mistress sat by his bed, having pulled up a chair several hours earlier to keep watch. She sat straight and taut in her seat, eyes trained on his face like she was worried he would lapse into another episode.

"What are you doing in my bedroom?" he asked. The words scraped out of him, and he winced at the sting of his raw throat. What he needed right now was a hot cup of tea and more sleep. But he had other things to worry about, namely the woman perched on one of his chairs at his bedside.

She took a deep breath, heat spreading up her neck. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

He scoffed. "Oh, I'm great. Just fantastic." His heart ached, and he fought back a wave of panic and sorrow, things he did not want her to see. "You can go then. Your job's done."

She almost got up, almost walked out the door, almost left him to his misery. But the Mistress just stayed put, bracing herself for the conversation she knew was coming. "I'm sorry."

Again, his heart gave a delicate throb in his chest, and he tried to ignore it and that pitiful flutter in his stomach. "What are you sorry for? You didn't do this." He shrugged his shoulders because that was all he could do with the meds still chaining his limbs to the bed. A shame they were so weak against the pain.

The Mistress closed her eyes, clasped her hands on her lap, and let out a slow breath. "No, but I know how you're feeling."

A slight ticking sound went off the back of the Warden's mind. He could not quite understand, but a nasty feeling scaled his spine and sunk its slimy fingers in the back of his neck, where goose bumps erupted like tiny mountains. "What? What do you mean?"

Now she looked at him, years of pain and fear and shame and anger pulsing in her stare. "I was raped too."

The ticking turned to a click, and memories and details started falling into place. Her intolerance for the inmates, for him. Her decision to run an all-woman prison. Her choice to sit by his bedside. The fact that it was her he remembered coming into the cell. Another thought struck in that instance: if what she said was true, then she had made a colossal sacrifice in venturing down the cellblock alone, all to save him. The idea chilled and heated him at the same time, and he gaped at her.

"What?"

"It happened a long time ago," she said, her shoulders sagging a bit. "Before I took over Ultraprison. I was in college, walking back to my apartment complex after a night class. I had heard on the radio and the news that a convict had escaped from a nearby prison, but I didn't really think about it. I was just thinking about getting home, taking a shower, and having a drink.

"When he grabbed me, I was so shocked I couldn't even scream. He got a handful of my hair and banged my head against a brick wall. I almost lost consciousness. I couldn't move, but I was awake during the whole thing. He was the escapee, and the police never found him after he ran off. I was so traumatized that I couldn't finish school." She looked up, her brows set in harsh lines over her eyes. "It was what made me decided to go into the business of incarceration. I wouldn't deal with the men, but I could at least punish people for their wrongdoings."

The air seemed to go out of her then, and she drooped like a deflated balloon. Her face tipped down, and her voice went low. "When I saw what that man did to you… I just… I'm so sorry that happened to you. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

The Warden watched her in horrified silence. Her shoulders shook a little, but if she did cry, she made no sound, and no tears fell on her shorts. He licked his lips to get them working again and said, "I had no idea." Another anomaly clicked. "Is that why when we had sex you were so upset? I thought you were just having day after regrets."

She shook her head but said no more, probably couldn't.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what else to say."

"Don't worry about it." She wiped her eyes. "Nothing you can do. We need to focus on getting you better. How do you feel physically? Are you in a lot of pain?"

He shifted and grunted. "Yes, but I can bear it for a little while. It's worse in my side, but it certainly hurts all over." Warden paused, wondering if he really wanted to ask the next question. "I passed out at one point. Can you tell me exactly what happened to me?"

"You don't want to know, Warden," she said, putting her hand on his naked shoulder. "It will just make things harder for you."

The glare he sent her made her drop her hand. "I need to know. Just tell me."

"From what the Doctor could tell, after you passed out, he stayed on you for twenty minutes. During that time, or afterward, he beat you with his fists. Luckily he didn't damage your spine. You narrowly escaped a bad infection in your knife wound. However, you do have severe trauma to that wound and your…" She blushed but not for her, for him and the way his face went tight and trembly. "You should be completely healed in a couple of months. Until then you need to take it easy and try not to do too much."

He sighed, and a single tear slid down his cheek. How hard had he fought to keep that tear back, but it still dropped down, still darkened his sheets. "How did you all find me?"

Here it came, probably the worst part. She prepared for the inevitable breakdown that would come with this news and scooted her chair closer. The Mistress leaned in, placed a hand on his arm. "There are video cameras in every cell. All the feeds but one were cut. We figured out what cellblock you were on and checked those feeds. The only one up was the one that showed us Sykes's cell. We saw you and came to you immediately."

Tremors seized his body, and his face went pale then red then pale again. He looked like he might be sick. With his eyes still fixated on the foot of the bed, he asked, "It was all caught on camera? You saw me under him?"

"No, he had already finished." Wrong thing to say.

He gritted his teeth, and a throaty groan came out. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tilted his head back.

"Warden? Warden, calm down." She put her hands on his shoulders, tried to get him to look at her without climbing onto the bed. "It's okay. No one's going to see it. No one's going to see it. I promise. Jailbot's deleting the footage as we speak. I promise it's okay. Please, calm down. You're going to reopen your stitches. Warden."

He shook without ceasing, but something finally crumbled inside him. The tears streamed down his face, and his mouth opened in a soundless cry. The Warden slumped forward into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder and soaking her shirt with tears. She wrapped her arms around him and let him weep, let him shake out all his energy. She rocked him back and forth, rubbing his back and making soft, gentle sounds in his ear. If his sobbing didn't make her heart tremble, it was what came next.

He reached up his arms, dragging them out of the medication's grip, and grabbed the back her shirt. He clung to her and, through his tears, said, "I'm so useless. I'm worthless. I deserve this. It's all my fault."

The Mistress held back her own tears, these words coming as so familiar. "That's how it's going to feel for a while," she said, still tracing big circles into his bare back. "But it's not true, and it will never be true. And, in time, you'll come to believe that." _I did. _

It took several minutes of him crying and moaning for him to exhaust himself. When he finally expended his energy, she laid him down again, tucked the covers up around his chin, and stood. Then, before she turned away, she bent over and placed a brief kiss on his forehead.

He murmured something in his half-sleep and settled deeper into the sheets.


	9. Exertion

Just two days later, after sleeping through almost the entire day before, the Warden stood in his office. He looked out his panorama window onto Superjail's grounds. In one hand he gripped his cane, leaning on it until he thought it would give. The other rested on the small of his back in a tight fist. He hardly acknowledged the Mistress when she entered his office.

"What are you doing up?" she asked. "You should be in bed. This is really—" She almost said, "This is really stupid of you," but Jared's request popped up in her head, and she held her tongue. When she had gone to check on him just a few minutes ago and found him gone, she had jumped to the worst case scenario. Visions of Sykes breaking in and abducting him again flashed like lightning in her head, and she sprinted around the jail in search of him. Only after running into Jared did she learn of his location. She paused, composed herself, and headed to the office, where she now stood watching his back.

"I'm sure they're all talking about it," he said, still looking down at his inmates as they took their daily exercise under the sun. "Plenty of them were there when it happened. I doubt they have much reason to keep it secret." He gripped the cane a little tighter. "I can never go out there again. I can't face them knowing what they know."

She sighed and walked to his side. "I know it's hard," she said, following his gaze. "And don't feel like you have to just yet, but I'd like for you to at least try going out there at some point. You can't live the rest of your life holed up in your bedroom and your office." She rubbed her right arm, glanced at the floor. "That's no way to live."

He looked at her, studying her face, her posture, the way she shifted her weight. "How did you manage it?" The question was almost too soft for her to catch, but catch it she did.

"It took time. I tried counseling, but I never could afford it. I read self-help books. I would get halfway through one and toss it out." She sighed. "I just never felt like anyone, therapists or authors, understood what I was feeling." Her eyes found his, and there was a gentle vulnerability there. "I could have used a friend really. Mine all lost touch when I didn't get over it and go back to normal. They had never experienced it, so they couldn't understand. No one could." Her gaze dropped again, but this time he reached out his free hand and skimmed his fingers beneath her chin. She looked up.

"Maybe we can help each other," he said. His voice faltered as he spoke, as if he were unsure whether or not she would agree.

It took all of her will to hide her smile. "That's a good idea. I'd like that." Now she did let a bit of her smile form on her lips, and she almost shuddered when she caught his gaze flick to her mouth for a brief moment. _That doesn't mean anything. Don't get any ideas, Mistress. _

"Good. I—" He broke off, doubling over. His cane tumbled from his hand as he grasped his side.

"Hold on," she said, one hand on his shoulders, the other on his chest. "Come on. Over here." She led him around to the other side of his desk, where she sat him down on the edge with his back to the window. She took off his hat and was about to shed his coat when she glanced up. "I need to get a look at your injury to see if something's wrong. Is it okay with you if I take off your coat and shirt?"

He gasped, sweat beading on his temples. "Yes," he said. "Yes, go ahead. Hurry."

She nodded once and stripped him to the waist. Away went his coat, bow tie, cummerbund, and shirt, landing in a pile on the side of the desk. Mistress hesitated around the bandages, worried that she might cause more pain than comfort. "Does it feel like you broke your stitches?" She did not look at him while she spoke, focusing only on the unmarred bandages in case blood showed through.

"No," he said, voice tense. "It's pulsing."

"You don't feel any opening, anything like the bandages rubbing against the inside of the wound?" She fluttered her hands around the top and bottom of the bandages. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin, and he shivered. She glanced up. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "It's okay," he said, but it came out a little slurred. "It's just throbbing really. I think my medication is starting to wear off."

"I'll call the Doctor in a second." She stood up. "Can you try sitting up straight?"

He did, and the pain broke over him like a rough wave. As he ducked down again, she reached out in her fear and cradled his head in her hands. That single moment, that single gesture of concern and care froze them both. Warden remained hunched over his side, and the Mistress bent just slightly above him. For a second, his pain and her worry were forgotten as electricity jolted between her palms and his cheeks.

Then, with glacial speed, she bent further, and their lips met in a hesitant, nervous kiss. She worried that this might damage him mentally. He worried that his pain would get in the way. Still, they stayed like that, with her holding his face and him kissing her with needy, eager lips.

It was only when they parted that he realized something was wrong. When he figured it out, his whole face went crimson, and tears threatened to show.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her fears gelling in her mind. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. You weren't ready."

"No," he said. "It's not that." He chewed his lip, embarrassment warming his skin. "I think all of the stress maybe started something again."

"What is it? Your stitches?"

He shook his head. Finally, he sighed and said, "Help me off this desk, and you'll see."

Confused, she slid her arms under his and lifted him from the desk. Backing up, her mouth dropped open. Where the Warden had sat was a small puddle of blood. She craned her neck and managed to see the same blood leaking through the seat of his pants. The trauma had reignited.

She laid him on the floor, face down with his coat folded up under his wound. He hid his face against the carpet, a light groan emitting from somewhere in the back of his throat.

"It's okay," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Don't be embarrassed. It's not your fault." When he didn't reply she pulled out her communicator, which Jared had given her for the time being, and contacted the Doctor.

Within minutes he arrived in the office. He carried his medical kit and strode right to the Warden's side. "I already see the problem. You have been exerting yourself far too much, Warden," he said to the man's hair, since he was still hiding his face. "You have to rest and not put so much pressure on yourself to get back to work just yet."

"Can you do something about this, Doctor?" Mistress asked, still combing through his hair. Really, she had forgotten she was doing it and had just fallen into the rhythm, but the Doctor saw and made a mental note of it.

"Yes. I need to treat the source. That means I'll need to take off your pants and underwear, Warden," he said. "Do you understand?"

He groaned again.

"I'll leave," she said, keeping her voice low.

At the sound of her footsteps once she had gotten to her feet, the Warden's hand flashed out and grasped her shoe. "Don't go," he said, and the words were so broken and pitiful that she didn't have the heart to deny him.

She sat by his head. When he reached out his hand again, she took it and gave it a gentle squeeze. While the Doctor worked, she ran her fingers through his hair and squeezed his hand. He finished, packed up, and stood.

"Can you handle it from here?" he asked, but even he knew the answer to that question. It was evident from the way he edged closer to her, practically nuzzling her leg with his head.

She nodded, and he left with not another word.

"Okay," she said. "Let's get you stood up, and then I'll get you dressed okay?"

He made a little noise of agreement.

"Then, we'll go to your room and you can get into a clean pair of clothes. Maybe take a nap. Would you like that?" She kept stroking his hair.

"Yes," he said, and he fought the urge to moan at her touch. It had been fine when the humiliation and discomfort of the Doctor's ministrations had been layered over her touch, but now that it was just him and her and her hand in his hair…

"Okay then." She got on her knees, put her arms under his again, and hauled him up. As she did, he stumbled and clung to her in his near-nakedness. The only kind of cover he had were the bandages. Other than that, he was naked and weak and probably scared out of his mind.

So she held onto him when he hugged her. She stroked his hair when he cried.

And she kissed his shoulder when it trembled.


	10. Exposed

**Author's Note: Merry Christmas to all the people following this fic. (Or Happy Holidays to those of you who don't.) I hope you're all having a great day and feel free to drop me a note in the review for this chapter or in my inbox letting me know what presents you got and what you did. (If you were to request something specific for me to include in the chapters to come, I may just make it my present to you.) Now, hold on tight, everyone. This chapter's a rough one.**

The Warden sat in what could be called a "hover car" or something along those lines and peeked out the mostly-covered window on his side. Superjail's yard crept past him as he, the Mistress, and Jailbot made the rounds that afternoon. It had taken a couple days of work to get the Warden to this point, and he still refused to leave the safety and near-anonymity of the car. Instead, he huddled in a corner and scanned the faces of each prisoner, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was out there.

"Don't worry," the Mistress said, her voice as soft as the hand she placed on his thigh. "He's not there. Jailbot caught him, remember?"

The aforementioned robot floated along outside, leading the car across the grounds.

Warden hunched his shoulders, turning his gaze to her hand, which rubbed his leg in long, slow motions. "Where did you say they put him?"

"Solitary," she said. "Maximum security. 24-hour watch."

He nodded and placed his hand over hers, feeling the smoothness of her hand through his glove. _Hm. She's stopped wearing her gloves. I wonder why? _

"We only need your decision on what to do with him," she said.

He nodded again, forgetting the way the heat of her palm went straight through his pants and buried itself in his leg. "I need to think. I'll tell you when I've made up my mind."

Now she nodded, understanding the mixed feelings raging inside him. On one hand was the instinctual desire to avenge himself and his injuries. On the other was the doubt and fear that would stay with him for months, years even. Sykes had a following, and if they discovered his execution, the Warden might never be safe again. He could not very well kill all of the inmates.

A bit of his strength seemed to go out of him, and he sagged in his seat. The Mistress slid across the plush material and put one arm around his shoulders. Her other hand stayed on his thigh as he lowered his head to her shoulder, where he sighed at her touch. His lips moved against the curve of her neck with every breath he released. Chills ran up and down her spine, but she pushed her feelings back. He needed comfort now, not sex.

So she held him much like she had held him in his office, only this time he did not cry. It was like he was simply exhausted and in need of even the smallest bit of rest she could provide. In a way, this was almost more distressing and intimate a display than his tears. Never before had he given a sign that his seemingly infinite store of energy could fail. But now he leaned against her, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Jailbot beeped, and the worried sound of it broke through the semi-silence of the car.

The Mistress looked up and caught a glimpse of something out of the Warden's window. She squeezed his shoulder. "What's that?" she asked.

He sat up and followed her gaze, his eyebrows knitting together over his newly-repaired glasses. "I'm not sure."

She tried to ignore the goose bumps that rose on his neck, but a strange uneasiness filled her.

"I'll just be a moment," he said, reaching for the door.

Her hand grasped his arm, and she leaned forward. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

For a moment, it looked like he doubted himself, but he nodded. "It'll just take a second. I'll step out, see what it is, come back inside." He said it like he was looking for her approval, her affirmation that his plan was a good one.

She nodded. "Okay."

The Warden popped the door open and got halfway out of it when he froze. His face, tipped up to the sky, was turned from the Mistress. She slid further along the seat, wedging herself closer to him and the open door.

"Warden?" she asked, that uneasiness squirming in her belly. "What is it?"

A huge blimp, colored purple and yellow like the Warden, hovered above the yard. Built into its side was a television screen that looked down on the inmates. They stood still, curious and confused by the new occurrence.

"What?" the Warden said, but it sounded like he was talking more to himself than to the Mistress. He gripped the top of the door with one shaky hand. The other held his cane at his side.

The display came to life with static, and snow filled the screen. He thought he could hear voices layered under the static, but he wasn't sure. The Warden squinted at the screen and pressed closer to the door.

Ice sheathed the Mistress's nerves. "Warden," she said, one hand reached out to him like she might drag him backward. "Warden, get back inside."

He held up a hand. "One second."

"No, Warden. Get back inside. Please."

The tone of her voice, desperate and scared, drew his gaze. His lips parted to ask her why she sounded like that, but then the screen cleared.

There, displayed in full above the jail, was Sykes's cell.

Murmurs ran like ripples through the yard, but Warden stood like a pillar ready to crumble. He could not grip the door hard enough for all the tremors running through him. Over the sound of recorded jeers and laughter, the Mistress heard him say a faint, "No."

Then, for the entertainment and supreme pleasure of all the inmates, the Warden's assault was played out in its entirety. Every scream and sob incited a new wave of laughter. Every time the camera caught a shot of his naked genitals, they jeered. When he once turned his face so the camera captured his look of pain and fear in full, they applauded.

And the Warden, the Warden from the tape, stood in the middle of it all, one hand still on the door. Tears poured unceasingly down his face and dropped like raindrops from a gutter. His face, utterly red, bent in some undefinable passion. Every line and plane of that face crumpled and twisted to show the darkest and deepest emotions as they came and went. But, behind all the rage and humiliation and agony, there was a kind of wintry fear, a fear that reminded the Mistress of bare tree branches in the coldest months.

It was the fear that brought him to the ground in a heap of shivering limbs. He sat by the car, hugging his knees while the tape played on. The inmates, suddenly aware of his presence and vulnerable state, turned on him. They approached, cackling and calling things at him that neither he nor the Mistress remembered later.

"Warden," she said, moving toward him. "Warden, it's going to be okay. Get in the car. Come on. Get in the car, Warden. Please."

As she reached for his shoulder, Jailbot swooped in. He plucked his creator from the dust and cradled him in his metal arms as he soared back to the Warden's side of the jail.

The Mistress, stunned by this turn of events, climbed back in the car, shut the door, and prepared to pilot it back herself.


	11. Accusations and Silence

The Mistress ran as fast as she could to the Warden's office after finding him missing from his bedroom and the infirmary. Her heart thudded in her chest, and every step sent a thick ache through her chest. As she ran, she loosened her tie. It felt like she was choking, struggling for whatever breath she could get. She went from cold to hot and back again so fast it left her dizzy, and she had barely recovered her breath when she burst into the Warden's office.

Like before, he stood with his back to her, gaze directed at the grounds.

Unlike before, his posture was rigid, and his shoulders tensed when she entered. His head was slightly bowed, and he gripped the cane with a terrifying amount of strength. His other hand clenched and unclenched at his side. He had placed his top hat on the desk, and his short hair bristled along his scalp and the back of his neck. Everything about him radiated fury.

The Mistress faltered, stopping just in front of the door. "Warden?" she asked.

He sighed through his nose, and his shoulders rose and fell in sharp motions. "You know, Mistress," he said, every word coming out taut and strained, "I know we were never the best of friends, but I had thought that we were becoming rather fond of each other."

"What are you talking about?" She took another step. "Of course we were—are."

When he looked at her over his shoulder—one narrowed eye glaring at her—a bolt of cold shot up her spine. It left a trail of tingling skin behind, and she resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze.

"Then answer me this." He turned, heels pivoting in one smooth motion. His steps as he approached her rang out in the room. "Why did you broadcast that disgusting video?" As he spoke, his voice rose steadily until his final words came screaming out of his throat and into her face. "You said it had been deleted. You said no one would see _that_." His lips trembled for a moment, and he clenched his jaw. "You lied to me."

"I didn't—"

"You betrayed me." Now his face was only inches from hers, and he shook all over.

"I didn't." Her eyes opened wide, and she scoured his face, taking in every minute detail. The way his forehead wrinkled over the arch of his eyebrows. The faint lines under his eyes that betrayed his age. How his nose flushed when his cheeks did. And the way his lips thinned as he shouted. "Why would I do that to you?" she asked, lowering her voice in a tactic she had learned from countless therapy sessions. Maybe she could influence his temper with her tone. Though, from looking at the sparks bursting in his eyes, she didn't have a lot of faith in her plan.

"I would never do that to you," she said. "I went through the same thing."

"You lied."

The Mistress froze, and an icy wind swept through her from her head to her feet. Her skin prickled like someone had run their fingers over it with the lightest touch. Panic and terror swelled up on the wind's back, and old memories came flooding in, memories of fights with friends and family, words that burned themselves into her brain long ago. Now they reignited and scorched the inside of her skull.

"What?" she asked.

"You lied," he said. "You were never raped. You made it up to get me to feel sorry for you so you could really hurt me later. You're sick and a liar." His chest heaved when he went silent, and he stood staring down at her liked he expected some big explosion or at least to be slapped.

But it didn't come.

The Mistress stood there, eyes getting smaller as her tears got bigger. Heat filled her face, and she ducked her chin while her shoulders came up. One by one, tears started spilling down her cheeks. Tremors darted up and down her arms.

She looked at him for a long time before thrusting her face closer to his, making sure he heard every word of what she said next.

"I was so _stupid_ to think I could trust you."

And with that, she turned and left the room. She didn't even slam the door, just let it shut quietly behind her.

The Warden stood there for a minute as the shakes left his body. Tears burned in his eyes, and they came faster than he could blink them away. Suddenly, a terrible chill overtook him, and he nearly lost his breath.

He ran to the door, flung it open, and looked out into the hallway.

"Mistress, wait," he said.

But it was too late. The hall was empty, and he couldn't even hear the sound of her fading footsteps. Tear after tear slipped down his face, and he ran as fast as he could without collapsing in pain.

"Jailbot," he said through gasps.

His faithful creation appeared in seconds.

"Show me where the Mistress is," he said. "I need to know she's still here. Hurry."

In a moment, the Warden found himself looking at the Mistress as she disappeared into her room just around the corner. He dismissed Jailbot and arrived at her door moments later.

But he didn't go in.

He simply stood there, forehead pressed against the smooth wood of the door. From inside came broken, unbridled sobs. Then, a raw scream muffled in either bed sheets or a pillow.

The Warden stood there until the room went silent, all the time trying to screw up his courage to go in but finding his strength failing every time he reached for the door knob. So he just stood there and cried with her, tears streaming in silence down his face.

When everything was quiet and still, and the air was damp with tears, the Warden turned around and went back to his office.


	12. I'm Sorry

The next day, the Warden trudged into the break room. A vending machine, sink, and coffee maker occupied one side, while Jared sat at the single table on the other. The smaller man had just pulled out a cigarette and was preparing to light it when his boss entered.

"Oh," he said, noting the bags under the Warden's eyes. "Good morning, sir. Did you need something? You don't really visit the break room often."

The Warden sighed, removing his hat so he could rub a hand through his disheveled hair. His eyes shut for a moment. "I didn't sleep well, Jared," he said. "Thought I'd get some coffee to wake myself up."

Jared eyed him. Why didn't he just ask Jailbot to get him some? He must have some other reason for coming here. "Let me get it for you, Warden." He got up, pocketing the lighter and placing his cigarette behind his left ear. "You sit down. Rest."

He nodded and pulled up a chair. Once he had settled in the plastic chair, he dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. The night had been terrible. When he did sleep, he had nightmares and woke up hours before he was supposed to. He only got about four hours of sleep, and it was hammering his head with every passing second.

Jared poured the Warden a mug of coffee from what was left in the pot. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned at his boss's slumped shoulders. "Cream and sugar, Warden?"

"Yes, please," he said, still with his back to the accountant.

_He's being awfully civil this morning. Something must be wrong. _Jared stirred in the cream and sugar, tapping the spoon on the lip before tossing it in the sink. He returned to the table and set the mug at the Warden's elbow.

The Warden looked at the cup. It was the same one Jared had gotten him for Christmas a few years back. He normally used his own mugs and had left this one here for no particular reason other than negligence. The jail's façade covered one side of it. On the other were the words "Number one Boss," written in Jared's shaky handwriting before receiving a glaze in the oven. He ran his fingers over the words and nodded to himself.

"Thanks, Jared," he said before bringing the drink to his lips. He blew a soft stream of breath over the steaming coffee and took a sip. Until the caffeine took effect, he figured he could let himself be a little open with his accountant. At the very least, he could be friendly.

"No problem, sir." He plucked the cigarette from his ear and dug out his lighter again.

The Warden looked up. "Mind if I get one of those from you?" he asked, pointing at the cigarette while still holding the mug with both hands.

Jared looked from the cancer stick to his boss. "Sure," he said and handed him his cigarette. He pulled out another and lit it. "Here." He lit the Warden's.

The Warden nodded and took a small pull from his cigarette. His throat tightened, but it felt better than the ache in his head. He could use another type of pain to distract him from the real agony pulsing in his chest.

"Warden?" Jared did not take his eyes off his boss, whose face looked like someone had dug their fingers into the flesh and pulled straight down. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?"

For a moment, the Warden was silent. He alternated between his cigarette and his coffee before setting the mug aside and examining the cigarette between his fingers. "I made a huge mistake yesterday, Jared. I'm not sure I can fix it."

Jared pretended he couldn't see the tears shining in Warden's eyes and focused on his own cig. "Whatever you did, did you mean to do it?"

"I'm not sure." Had he said those things with the intent to hurt the Mistress? Part of him said yes, but another part insisted that he had been in an awful state and just lashed out in his mania. Still, he wasn't sure. He didn't really get any satisfaction from seeing her cry so maybe not. "But I regret it. I regretted it the second I did it." Well, that was a lie. Maybe not that second but in the few seconds after it.

"I assume someone else is involved?" He peered at his boss, choosing his words carefully. This was clearly a delicate situation for the Warden, and he needed to be extra cautious. A thin sweat had already broken out on his forehead, but he ignored it for the time being.

He nodded, eyes cast downward.

_If I was still gambling, I would bet money it's the Mistress. Damn. It must be bad if he's asking me for advice. _"Have you tried apologizing? And I mean a sincere apology, Warden. I know you think filling someone's living space with rainbows and mutated unicorns is a good apology, but I mean a vocal, from the heart apology. With the words 'I'm sorry' and everything."

"I can't. What I did," he said, "I don't think there are enough words to make it okay."

"You won't know if you don't try. Cliché, I know, but still." He shrugged and took a final pull on his cigarette before getting up to toss it in the trash.

As he passed, the Warden grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. His face, more awake now with the coffee flowing through him, turned up to Jared with wide eyes.

"I'm really fucked up, aren't I, Jared?" he asked.

"What? Warden, what are you talking about?" He put the dead cig on the table and face his boss.

"I always knew I was different and not especially moral or good or anything, but I'm starting to understand why everyone hates me."

"No one hates you, sir."

"Stop lying, Jared. I wouldn't have been…" He looked away, heat coloring his cheeks. "That wouldn't have happened if at least one person didn't really hate me. And now I get it. I'm fucked eight ways to Sunday. What I did. No one in their right mind with any kind of decency would have done what I did. I screwed up, and then I came here hoping to get sympathy from you. What the hell is wrong with me?" He released Jared and pressed his face back into his hands. He clutched his dark hair and pulled.

"Sir, take a deep breath," Jared said, putting a hand on his boss's shoulder. If he went into another episode, he wasn't sure what he could do. "Try to relax. It's going to be okay. There's nothing wrong with you. You made a mistake. Now you just have to apologize and hope for the best. Okay?" He tried to smile when the Warden looked up, but he felt it falter on his face. "Everything's going to be okay. Just calm down a bit."

He took several deep breaths and grabbed his hat. In one fluid motion that told Jared that the coffee was finally taking effect the Warden got to his feet. He stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the sink before trashing it. "I'll be in my office." He turned and, just as he got to the door, he looked back and nodded at the accountant. "Thanks, Jared."

Jared nodded back. "No problem, sir."

* * *

When the door burst open, the Warden jumped and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his side, and he slumped in his chair a little more. But he straightened up again when he saw who blew in.

Alice, the Twins, Jailbot, and the Mistress stood in the middle of the room. Well, technically the Twins weren't standing. Jailbot dangled them a few feet over the floor by their wrists and looked pleased with himself whenever he shook them.

"What's going on here?" the Warden asked, looking to Alice after catching the Mistress's eye.

Alice jostled the Twins with her shoulder. "They're the ones behind the video. They hacked the main computer and made a copy. It's gone now though, permanently." She grabbed one twin by the neck and squeezed until he choked.

The Warden got to his feet, rounded the desk, and stood inches from the Twins. "Let them go, Jailbot."

Jailbot beeped and dropped them on the floor, where they rubbed their wrists and stared at the Warden's face.

"You are fortunate," he said, "that I am in a merciful mood. Otherwise you would be dead right now."

They gulped simultaneously and glanced at each other. "What are you going to do to us?" they asked.

He reached down, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side, and hauled them to their feet. "Get out," he said. "Leave this planet. Go somewhere else and never return. If you do return, keep in mind that I will not be as merciful next time, and you will die a painful, slow death. Now go." Fury bubbled in him, but he kept it reigned in and felt that that might have been even more terrifying for the Twins, both of whom were used to his emotional outbursts.

They looked at each other and vanished without another word.

The Warden looked at Alice. "Thank you for telling me. You can go now."

Alice and Jailbot left, but the Mistress simply watched them go.

"Why did you come?" the Warden asked, his nerves finally getting to him. He clasped his shaky hands behind his back.

"I'm not sure," she said. "A glutton for punishment I suppose." The look in her eyes would have brought him to his knees if he had let it. There he saw a restless night like his own and a hurt he could only imagine.

The Warden took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know that doesn't even begin to cover what I'll need to do to try and fix what I did, but I have to start somewhere. I was just so…"

"Mad, I know," she said. "I used to feel like that too. How you just want to make anyone hurt so you can stop being the only one to feel your pain. But I'm not sure if I can trust you anymore, at least not with my experiences. You said you wanted to get through this together, but if you really believe what you said—"

"I don't," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "I promise I don't. I regretted it as soon as you left. I even went to your room to apologize, but I couldn't make myself go in and face what I did. I'm so sorry, Mistress. Really, I am. I promise I believe you. I want to earn back your trust, and I will do whatever I have to as long as you…" He looked down, his voice breaking. "As long as you don't leave me to deal with this alone. I can't do it alone. I… I need you."

When her arms went around his back, he broke down. It was like her touch undid something in him, and the tears just flooded down his face. He bowed his face to her shoulder and sobbed while she held him again. He wondered if he would ever be the one to hold her, but at the moment he didn't really care.

"I'm not going to leave," she said. "I promise. I'll be here as long as you need me."

He pulled away a little, eyes shining. His hands held the back of her head, and he lowered his face to meet hers. They stood like that for a while, just kissing and breathing together, before the Mistress pulled away and squeezed his hand.

"Would you mind coming to my room?" he asked, playing with her hair.

She kissed his cheek. "Let's go."


	13. The Shower

"I need your help with something," he said once they had entered his bedroom.

Heart fluttering in her chest like a desperate bird, the Mistress looked at him and asked, "What is it?" She took his hand in hers, fingers brushing over the lines of his palm. _Hm. He's not wearing his gloves. Did he forget? _

The Warden looked down at their joined hands, and his face colored. "This way," he said and led her through the room and into his bathroom. He stopped, facing away from her but still holding her hand. "It's really embarrassing. Maybe this was a mistake."

"Just tell me," she said, stepping closer so her chest pressed against his back. She gave his hand a squeeze and kissed his shoulder.

He sighed and doffed his hat. "I've been having a lot of trouble showering these past few days. I can't really bend over to wash all of me. I can get my hair clean and all, but the rest is too difficult. I try to sit and do it, but it just makes the pain worse." His free hand dug into his hair, and he turned his face when she tried to look in his eyes.

"I'll help you."

His eyes swooped back to catch her gaze. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Of course not. As long as you're comfortable with it." Her pulse thrummed with anticipation.

He nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

She stood in front of him and eased his coat off. He winced for a second, but soon it was off and folded on the edge of a large bathtub. Next came his bow tie and cummerbund. She paused at his shirt and glanced up at his watchful eyes.

"Try not to be too horrified when you see me," he said, a smile straining on his lips.

She laughed and shook her head. "I'll do my best." Button by button she revealed his pale, thin frame. Faded bruises coated him, but the most distracting spot was the stab wound. Stitches held the skin together, and she let her fingers flit over it for a moment before shedding his shirt.

"Will they be okay in the shower?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "The Doctor told me just to wait two days before getting them wait, so I should be fine." He put his hand over hers, holding her palm against the stitches. "Be careful though."

She nodded. "Of course." When he removed his hand, she kissed the stitches. Their ridges pressed against her lips, and her stomach turned over.

He sighed above her, and she looked up to see him drop his head back. A flush painted his neck, and she smirked. She could have some fun with this. She'd have to be cautious though. She dropped her lips back to his stitches. This time her tongue flicked out, briefly wetting the soft skin around the wound. A light groan rolled up through his chest, and she spotted a shift in his pants.

She moved on to his pants, mentally thanking him for going without a belt. Every movement from there on took on a tenderness she hoped would counteract whatever dangerous memories the act of being undressed conjured up for him. She slid his pants down before caressing his bare legs and massaging the muscles beneath them.

Her heart jumped when she found herself let with only his red, silk boxers. _Calm down. It's not like you haven't seen him naked before. Granted, you were under the influence but still. Just take a deep breath. _So she did, and when he was left completely naked she avoided staring. Instead she got to her feet and led him to the glass-walled shower with a wooden bench drilled into one wall.

For a moment, while he stood in the shower and she stood on the outside, she turned him around and kissed him. This kiss held something acutely different from the other ones. In this kiss was a scorching passion, a hungry desire that refused to stay silent. So when he knocked off her hat and buried his hands in her hair, she pressed closer like he had flipped a switch hidden deep inside her.

He pulled at her tie, slipping it off and tossing it over her shoulder. Her suspenders fell away to either side, and then his hands were sliding under her shirt, palms pressed flat against her chest, just above her breasts. Their eyes found each other, and permission passed without a word between them.

Her shirt came off over her head. He fiddled with the clasp to her bra, and she laughed, reaching behind to do it herself. Once she was naked from the waist up, she pressed against him again, memorizing the way their bare skin felt against each other.

Soon she was as naked as him, and they walked further into the shower, still kissing and caressing each other. Mistress nudged the door shut with her foot, and the Warden twisted on the water. It fell down in a chill spray, and they both jumped with simultaneous gasps. They hugged each other and laughed while the water went from cold to warm within the next few minutes. The Warden, gallant as ever, hid the Mistress's face against his chest and bent himself over her to shield her from the worst of the spray. Of course, she did not protest and merely stared down at his nakedness now that she had an excuse. It was more impressive than she remembered and made a note to mention it later.

Once they warmed up, the Mistress reached for a washcloth and a bottle of body wash. She paused though and glanced at the Warden with an arched eyebrow.

"What?" he asked.

"Mango Splash body wash?" She held up the product and fought a smile.

"So what? It smells good." He folded his arms and turned up his nose at her.

"Whatever you say, Warden." She shrugged and squeezed a dollop onto the cloth before setting it back on the bench. She went back to him as she rubbed the wash into a lather. "Tell me if this starts to hurt."

He nodded and tipped his chin up a bit so she could wash his neck and shoulders. She moved down, soaping his chest and washing it away. Her lips left a trail of damp kisses on his skin, mouthing the sensitive skin until he moaned again and gripped her shoulders. She barely touched the cloth to his wound, preferring to simply wash it with a splash of water before moving further downward.

She finished washing him and tossed the cloth onto the bench. When she came up, her eyes were flashing bright and clear. They rejoined, arms winding around each other and lips greeting each other. Tongues met, parted, came together again in a tumultuous dance that set both their hearts to a rapid pace.

The Mistress held him by the shoulders and walked him back until he came up against the shower wall a little harder than she had intended.

Suddenly, the Warden went still under her hands, and he pulled his head back with eyes wide. He just stared at her, eyes going in and out of focus like his brain couldn't make up its mind. His mouth dropped open, and his chest heaved.

"Warden?" she asked, pulse racing. "Warden, what's wrong? Are you hurt? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to." Her hands fluttered around him. She didn't know what to do, how to help, and he just looked so terrified.

"No," he said, voice jumping a few octaves and the word coming out as strained as a tightrope. "No, please. Don't hurt me. Leave me alone."

"Warden?" Her fears swelled up inside her chest. _No. No, this can't be happening. _"Warden, it's me. It's the Mistress. You're okay. You're safe."

"No." Now he was shouting, building toward screaming with every second. He pushed her away, cringing into his shoulder. "Help. Someone, help. Please. Don't."

The Mistress leaned out of the shower, her hair sticking to the side of her face. "Jailbot. Alice. Jared. Help. Get in here. Get the Doctor. Hurry." She looked back at the Warden and tried to reach a hand out to him, but he slapped it away.

Moments later, everyone was rushing in. Jared and the Doctor got the Mistress, pulling her away so Alice and Jailbot could pull the Warden out of the shower. Jared wrapped her in a towel and helped her sit on the edge of the bath.

The Warden flailed and writhed in Alice's grasp, but they eventually got him on his back on the floor. Jailbot dropped a towel over his lower half, and the Doctor knelt next to his head. He pulled out a syringe, and the Mistress felt everything fade to nothing around her.

Her head pounded, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She watched the Warden's twisted, terrified face until he went still. Even then, she didn't take her eyes off him but let the tears slide silently down her face, hoping anyone who saw would just think it was the water from the shower.


	14. Maybe next time?

When the Warden woke, he found himself in a hospital bed once again. He groaned and rolled his head from side to side on his pillow. His eyelids, heavy and thick from sedation, rose and fell like curtains made of Kevlar. A strange stickiness worked its way up the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down and coughed.

A soft, cold hand touched him on his naked arm, which lay upon the sheets. He followed the hand and arm with his eyes until he met the Mistress's somber gaze.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes dropping to his limp hand. She traced slow circles along the back of it.

"For what?" he asked between another cough. Why did his throat ache this way? Everything was still a watery blur, images and memories trickling in like water out of a clogged tap.

She closed her eyes, and her fingers paused in their ministrations, something he grieved instantly. "For triggering you like that. I should have known better. I shouldn't have anything so soon." Her voice wavered a bit, and she lifted one hand to brush at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

After a momentary struggle, the Warden lifted his hand and took the one she had left on his bed. He held her hand and tried to squeeze it, but he was still too weak. Now, things were coming back to him faster, and fear fluttered briefly against the effects of his medication. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "You didn't intend it."

She scoffed. "Intention is irrelevant. You suffered because I couldn't control myself."

"Did you think I was restraining myself?" he asked, a faint smile curving one corner of his mouth. "It was a miracle I didn't drag you to bed instead of the shower."

Her gaze flicked to his face, and surprise burst there for a moment before dwindling into modest embarrassment. "Either way," she said, "I should have been more careful. I wasn't thinking."

"Neither was I to be honest. I kind of lost my train of thought when you took off your shirt." He smiled enough to fill his face now, and a light flush painted his cheeks.

The Mistress laughed and squeezed his hand. "You weren't too bad yourself, Warden." She quirked one eyebrow and nearly fell out of her chair laughing at how wide his eyes got and how red his face got.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat again, "thank you. Maybe we can finish what we started some time down the road." He fiddled with the bed sheets, peering at her from beneath his lashes.

She smiled and nodded. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

With his strength flowing back into his body every moment he lay under her tender gaze, the Warden gripped her hand a little tighter. His heart beat quick and loud in his chest, and he caught his breath when she leant close to him. Their lips met in a soft, kind kiss that gentled him back to sleep while she stroked his hair and squeezed his hand.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the dreadfully short chapter. Things have been a little stressful as of late, and I couldn't muster much more than this really. However, I promise that the next bit will be well worth the patience you'll have to have with me for the time being. Things are about to get awfully exciting for our little sweethearts here so I hope you'll stick around for the next installment. Until then, I hope you've all had a Happy New Year and are enjoying the story. **

**And a big thank you to everyone who has been so supportive and wonderful over these past months. Your compliments and words of encouragement have been more meaningful than you might know, and I only hope that I may live up to your expectations. Again, thank you for everything. I appreciate each and every one of you. **

**Lots of love,**

**shortstorygirl**


	15. The Verdict Is In

Jared peeked into the room, eyes darting from the Mistress to the Warden. "Is he still asleep?" he asked, coming to his bedside and noting the light flush on his lips. It looked a lot like lipstick, but he ignored it.

"He woke up a few minutes ago, but he's gone back to sleep now," the Mistress said, still running her hand through his hair.

Jared said nothing for a few minutes, wrinkling his tie in his nervous hands while sweat coated his temples. His eyes flicked over every inch of the Warden's pale, drained face.

"What is it, Jared?" The Mistress eyed him. "The holes you're drilling into his face are bound to wake him up."

He looked at her as if he had forgotten her presence. "Oh. It's just that we need a decision on what to do with Sykes. Preferably today."

She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. "Give me a minute. I'll ask him."

He nodded, seemingly grateful that he didn't have to face the Warden when he was woken. Jared hurried out of the room, shoes clicking on the hard floor as he went.

The Mistress waited a few seconds before jostling the Warden just enough to wake him. His eyes opened, and he yawned, the tendons in his neck standing out under his milky skin. When he saw the Mistress, he smiled. "What's up?" he asked, shifting beneath the sheets. "When I said we could finish our business some time down the road I meant more than a few minutes." He laughed and shifted again. "Though," he said with a quick glance at the sheets, "I think I could manage if you really can't wait."

She smiled and stroked his cheek, fingers skimming his neck occasionally.

His smile dripped away, and his eyebrows crammed together over his eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?" He reached up and grasped her hand, holding it against his cheek.

_Sometimes I forget how intuitive he is. He just seems so clueless half the time, but he's amazingly observant when he wants to be. _"Jared came in while you were asleep."

He narrowed his eyes. "And?"

"You need to decide what you want to do with Sykes today. There's no more time to waste." Her free hand tugged back the covers enough for her to rub his chest in the hopes that it would soothe him.

A shiver coursed through him, but he just gripped her hand tighter and closed his eyes. He nodded, taking deep breaths. "I understand."

They stayed silent for a while. She kept rubbing his chest and twitched her fingers against his cheek every now and then.

"Alright," he said, looking up at her. "I have made my decision."

"Are you sure? Take your time." She leaned closer, heart beating faster.

"No, it's fine." He stared at her, eyes going from strength and anger to fear and panic like a tennis ball flying back and forth on the court. "He will be executed tomorrow morning by hanging."

She nodded and enveloped him in her arms. He shook slightly, but there were no tears.


	16. A Split Second

The Mistress stood in front of her mirror, coating her lips in a layer of red like she was slicking on armor. Her heart pattered in her chest, but her hands did not shake. She was steady where it counted, something for which she commended herself. She couldn't very well tell Sykes's he was doomed to death with flawed makeup now could she?

Tapping her crop against her thigh, she walked down hallway after hallway until she ended up at his cell, the one with the single, small window embedded in the door. After a deep breath, she slid the shutter away from the window and peered in.

There, slumped against the far wall and picking at a loose thread in his clothes, was Sykes. His head came up at the sound of the window being uncovered, and a nasty smile turned up the corners of his cracked lips.

"Hello, beautiful," he said, baring his teeth. "Come to pay me a conjugal?"

_Keep yourself in check. Don't let him get to you. You have the power here. _"Unfortunately no," she said. "Just here to deliver a message."

"How lovely. Afraid I've been a bit out of the loop as of late. Let me guess," he said. "The Warden's finally offed himself has he?"

Her chest swelled with the force of her inhale, but she forced herself to remain calm. "No, he's doing very well actually. Especially now that he's decided what to do with you."

Sykes ran his tongue along his lips before asking, "He already want more hm?"

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" The Mistress pinched her leg, a warning to herself that she was slipping and needed to get back on target. "Anyway no. You will be executed tomorrow morning by hanging. Better start planning your last meal, Sykes." She turned to leave but the shuffling sound that came from his room made her pause.

"What? Did he actually grow the balls to do it? He's really gonna have me hanged?" He laughed, short and loud like a feral dog's bark. "What a turn this is."

"And you'll have another turn tomorrow when you swing," she said, wanting to hit him with every barb she could muster. Her blood burned hot and tingly in her veins.

He stared at her, still smiling with that laugh on his lips. "You think you're gonna hurt my feelings or scare me, darling? You'll have to do better than that."

She said nothing, simply glared in at this person she had come to hate with everything in her.

He took a few more steps toward the door, adjusting the sleeves of his jumpsuit. "You know what would probably really put the dear Warden out of spirits?" he asked, eyes on his sleeves. "If I were to never make it to that hangman."

"Well that's not going to happen," the Mistress said. "Tomorrow morning, bright and early, you're going to hang for what you've done." She came right up against the door, practically nudging the window with her nose. "You will never take another breath in this prison, and you will never hurt him again. That is a certainty."

The silence that stretched between them was stiff like someone had doused it in starch and left it there. Finally he asked, "He wants to see it, doesn't he?"

"What?"

"He wants to see me hang. If he doesn't get to give the signal and watch me die at his hand, he won't be happy." His eyes darted over the Mistress's face, watching each flicker of movement. "That's that thing called closure right? Helps a person move on from trauma. I read about that a while back."

"So what? What's your point, Sykes? I'm very busy actually living as a free person." Her heart hammered away, and she curled and uncurled her toes in her shoes.

He chuckled and looked down. "The people who work this prison are pretty shoddy when it comes to laundry you know. They don't pay attention like they should."

Her skin crawled, and her throat tightened. She slipped one hand to her communicator, prepared to flip the emergency help call.

"You see, deary, I don't plan on giving that prick the satisfaction of killing me. I've got a bit more pride than to allow that." Now he looked up, and his eyes were wild, but his smile was steady. "So, I suppose you're just gonna have to tell the Warden that he's not getting his closure this time around."

And with that Sykes held up a small package of what looked to be those things left in the pockets of clothes and bags. The ones that commanded you not ingest them. And Sykes had torn off the top and was about to tip them into his open mouth.

It took the Mistress just a split second to flip her call switch, unlock the cell door, and plunge into the cell with her arm outstretched to knock the crystals from Sykes's hand.

And it took him just a split second to toss them away and elbow her in the jaw.


End file.
